Arena
by SpellCleaver
Summary: Anakin, a major Rebel leader and fire magician, is captured by Palpatine and forced to fight in a gladiator's arena for sport. Nothing could possibly stop him from escaping—except the promise that his children are still alive. But the other gladiators are plotting a coup. A betrayal from seven years ago rears its head again. And the Empire Day celebratory games are on their way...
1. The Road to Hell

**I've had this first chapter written on paper for quite a few weeks now, but it took me a while to get the time to type it up, and also edit it to the extent it needed. But here it is!**

**It won't interfere with Eclipse updates, I can promise you. I don't expect it to be very long-about three chapters-and I'm not sure when I'll be able to update. I'll just write it when I have the time.**

**Otherwise, warnings for mentions of suicide (sort of) in this chapter, and a lot of talk about murder. And violence. The usual in my fics, really.**

* * *

Anakin twisted his hands in the cuffs. The metal was uncomfortably cold against his skin—_especially_ cold because it cut him off from the heat that was always inside him. The fire he valued and relied upon so much.

The fire that was the only thing he had.

He'd known that Palpatine and his damned Empire had been working on a substance that could negate a magician's powers, but he hadn't been sure whether or not to believe it. He was used to dealing with rumours and hearsay, nothing ever confirmed because no one ever survived to confirm it, but even _that_ had been too farfetched to be true. . .

His powers were a part of him. No magician had ever been cut off from such an intrinsic sense of self. There were myths, of course, about such a horror, but they focused on curses or some sort of arcane sorcery—in other words, they were _myths_. To have it suddenly become true had been. . . an unpleasant thought.

And now it was more than a thought.

The metal was so pale it glowed white, unnatural against his tanned skin. The fire inside him quailed and flickered before its frozen bite; he shivered in its presence.

Idly, he tugged on the cuffs, but of course they wouldn't budge. Palpatine was not going to take any chances with the prize he'd caught today. Anakin would no doubt be tortured, executed, and then—

He closed his eyes, a part of him longing for it despite himself. And then he might see Padmé and his twins again.

It had been seven years since he'd made his mistake, and they'd been targeted. His anger still burned as bright and livid as ever.

He heard the footsteps long before he really processed what they meant. Once he did, he stopped tugging futilely at the cuffs—he didn't want to give the old man the satisfaction—but kept the glower on his face; indeed, he intensified it.

Palpatine came into view slowly, as if he was aware of how much effort it took for Anakin to get a view of him past the narrow bars of his cell. Even once he was in full view, he stood for a good few moments with his hood down to conceal much of his face from view. Anakin had no idea what he was thinking.

The situation wasn't mutual, he thought bitterly. That was what happened when he was dealing with a mind-reader.

Then he finally lowered his hood, those disgustingly yellow eyes glowing in his face, and said. "Anakin, my boy," with all the warmth of a hearth. It made him hate him even more. "It's so lovely to see you again—how have you been?"

Anakin gripped the bars and squeezed, tendons arching across the back of his hands. He _hoped_ Palpatine was reading his mind now: he hoped the man knew just how badly he wanted to squeeze _his throat_ instead.

"I've been better," he bit out, "_murderer_."

"Ah, Anakin," Palpatine shook his head. "You know full well that was your own fault. I _asked_ you to be my protégé, help me establish this new and glorious order. You knew what you stood to lose if you refused, and you refused me anyway."

"You _murdered my wife, _my _children_—"

"Well, I couldn't leave them alive now, could I? Especially the twins. One Skywalker leading a rebellion against my regime has been irksome enough. Imagine the chaos caused if three fire magicians were running around! And as for dearest Padmé." He clucked his tongue. "Well, I told her to get out of the way. I didn't want to kill her. I had no desire to kill my cousin if I didn't have to, but she stood between me and her darlings as long as there was breath left in her. If you must assign blame, blame her sense for drama and heroine complex, or whatever it might have been.

"She took an annoyingly long time to die, as well," he added as a afterthought. It was like he couldn't tell that Anakin was ready to break down or throw up already. Or maybe he could—_probably_ he could—and he was just thoroughly enjoying this anyway. "She simply would not stop screaming."

"_You_—" Anakin was shaking, shameless tears streaming down his cheeks. "You _monster_. How—" His throat caught. "How _dare_ you call her your cousin."

"Well, she was. Gifted or not, she was a member of the Naberrie-Palpatine-Amidala-etcetera line—we _were_ short on male members to carry on the name for a while, I'm afraid it got a bit muddled—and was therefore my cousin. To be specific, second cousin thrice removed, wasn't it?"

"You _killed_ her. _And_ the twins—" _Who would've been your cousins too_—

"Ah. I already told you. They were Naberries, but also _Skywalkers_. And I'm afraid the threat your family tree poses to mine means I sometimes must," he twisted his hands, tilting his head thoughtfully, "prune the polluted branches of my own. The contaminated ones, if you will. At least it was one of the non-gifted members." A pause. "Though, _non-gifted_ might be a bit of a stretch; she certainly had enough skill to maintain considerable mental shields against me, but they ultimately failed. I imagine it was quite agonising for her when I finally broke through—not in the least because it was the knife she'd taken up to defend her children was the one that killed the three of them in the end—"

"Stop." Anakin bent his head down, clutching his hands over his ears, but he'd already heard it, it was already seared into his mind, the horror and tragedy of his poor family's last moments—

He'd always guessed, from what they'd found of the remains, what had happened. They'd been charred to the bone, the fire in the manor just another part of Palpatine's ploy—_it was you who lit this flame, your power that killed them_—but he could see where the bones were, how Padmé had stood before them with that gleaming knife until the end—

His captain of the guard had been the only survivor. In Rex's final, maddened moments, Anakin had heard how Palpatine had ripped into the minds of all the armed guards and forced them to march on every breathing person in the building, blood staining the marble floors. At the end of it all he'd forced them to kill themselves, but Rex had been allowed to resist just long enough to relay the tale of Anakin. . . and to bear the madness as punishment for resisting that long. He'd killed himself not long after.

_That_ version of the tragedy had been haunting enough, enough to kindle an inferno of rage inside Anakin even when his Rebel allies had almost been beaten into submission. But this one. . .

The idea that Padmé had fought so staunchly for her children, kept her mind so fortified, only for Palpatine to rip into it and have her turn that knife on them herself. . . and then _her_ after. . .

He lunged at Palpatine. His head collided with the bars hard, sending it ringing, and the man was out of reach anyway. He just laughed.

"Oh, my boy," he said, disgustingly fondly. "You still have such fire in you—not that I would expect anything less from the leader of my most infuriating Rebel cell. You'll be quite the spectacle in the arena."

Anakin froze, rubbing his head.

The arena?

"No," he said aloud. "No!"

"Why ever not? It's where all of the finest magicians in the land are sent to show off their talent."

"Sent to _die_ more like." He shook his head. "These gifts are _sacred_, you bastard, not something to be shown off in some brutal contest of strength."

"That's slightly odd of _you_ to say, isn't it? Didn't you used to use yours to impress and. . . _woo_. . . your beloved Padmé?"

"That's different and you know it." He snarled at him. "The noble gifts are not things to be disrespected; they were given to our houses _by_ the land so we may _serve_ the land, and—"

"The noble houses are no more, _Lord Skywalker_." Palpatine's voice quickly dropped to a sneer, eyes flicking him up and down. Anakin became aware that he hadn't washed in weeks, hadn't been able to, and he wasn't sure if it was shame or anger that he burned with. "You _will_ fight in my arena—it makes such good money, and the populace just _love_ to see you _gods_ bleed."

"So long as the one god they never see bleed is you, right?" Anakin said bitterly.

"The old order is gone, child." Anakin tried not to roll his eyes; he hadn't been a child in years. "This is _my_ order. If you wish a higher place in it—one more akin to your old one, perhaps—then simply kneel, and pledge your loyalty to me. I'm sure we can leave this hiccup behind us, and I'd be honoured to name you my heir."

Anakin snarled, "I will _never_ betray my family. You murdered them, and I will not rest until you lie just as dead as they do."

Palpatine didn't even bother answering for a moment. He just turned, and walked down the corridor.

His voice floated back, "Then you will not be particularly well rested for tomorrow."

Then he left, and the light left with him.

* * *

Needless to say, after that talk with Palpatine, Anakin did not sleep well.

Even when the masked soldiers—stormtroopers, Anakin knew they were called—came to escort him out of the dungeons, through the grounds and into a side facility, the bed in the room they shoved him into did nothing to help him sleep. He was tired, certainly, and the mattress was as comfortable as Anakin had felt since Palpatine's coup. After all, he'd heard that Palpatine's gladiators were treated like kings—so long as they entertained the crowds.

It was insulting. His fire was a part of him, a gift from the gods, and showing it off for entertainment was _belittling_. He knew there'd been a belief among the noble families with subtler gifts—the mind-readers, charmspeakers—that the flashier, martial powers were of lesser worth. Anakin had no problem with that belief—provided that said families had the _worthiness_ and _power_ to stop him from burning their faces off when provoked.

He would not fight for anyone's amusement—least of all Palpatine's. He _would not fight_—

But they were going to make him, anyway.

The stormtroopers didn't come again in the morning—a middle-aged man did, with a strange, cybernetic eye. Anakin recognised him as Doctor Cylo, the scientist responsible for most of Palpatine's _experiments_ on magicians. He didn't look much like a scientist, in his fine azure and gold coat, but Anakin didn't care. He knew who this person was.

The man knocked on the door, but entered even before Anakin's sarcastic, "Come in." He could hear the locks disengage, then the door swung open on his modest little room to admit him. He wasted no time in tilting his head back, the room's single lights glinting off his mechanical eye, and observing him.

"Darth Vader," he greeted. "His Highness has sent me to escort you to the fitting for your armour."

"That's. . . not my name?" Anakin was genuinely confused.

"It is now. Everyone assumes a new identity when they enter my arena."

"More like they're not even human once they enter your arena."

"Perhaps not, in the more extreme cases," Cylo conceded, surprisingly amiably, "but that is for the best. They aren't human anymore, no longer mere magicians; they are _better_, with all the strengths and none of the weaknesses; they—"

"You are _not_ doing that to me."

"No, I'm not." Cylo looked regretful. "His Highness has ordered it so—I believe he wants to watch you struggle and suffer as much as possible. But no matter. You are renowned as one of the greatest martial magicians there is. This will provide a good test to gauge just how good my creations are."

He waved to the troopers, who stepped forward. "We will be escorting you to get your armour fitted now. Your first match is scheduled for tomorrow. The audiences are eager to see what this _Darth Vader_ can bring to the table."

"My name is Anakin—"

"Not anymore. Haven't we already covered this?"

Anakin glowered. "I'd have thought Palpatine would revel in showing off his captured rebel magician, not hide his identity."

"I do not disagree. However, His Highness always has shrewd reasons for doing what he does. I am confident the same applies here." He gestured to the door. "Now you are going to get fitted."

Anakin took a step back. "No, I'm not."

Three fights, endless bruises and forty minutes later, he was standing getting his armour fitted.

The room was a large one, lined with gauntlets and armguards and braces and helmets. The servant who scuttled around on Cylo's orders reached for one particular helmet of a metal so dark it was nearly black. It looked like a death mask, or coffin fresco. Anakin eyed it warily.

"I feel," Cylo said, hands folded behind his back, "That I had better tell you a little about your prospective opponents. For your own good, you understand. It's been so long since His Highness gave us new blood to play with, the others might get a little. . . overexcited."

"You speak of them like they're children."

"Oh but they _are_, Vader. They are _my_ children. They are my creations. I don't want anybody to get. . . hurt."

He paused, but Anakin made no interjection. It would, at the end of the day, be clever to get all the information he could.

Cylo continued, "The fighter I've had with me the longest is Karbin. He was once a metal magician, and I've since used that gift to give him more than a human's natural two legs. The focus he needs to manipulate them all means he's unlikely to crush your helmet with your head inside it—he can't control everything at once—but. . . still. I'd advise you look out for that."

Unwittingly, Anakin's hand went to his chest plate. He wondered how it would feel if it suddenly crumpled into spikes, dug into his lungs. . .

"Trandoshan is another old one, been here a few years. He was actually a fire magician like yourself—no relation, of course. I don't pretend to be an expert on magician genealogy, but there were multiple fire lines, no? It was one of the more. . . _common_ traits."

Despite himself, sneering, Anakin nodded.

Cylo barely acknowledged him, and instead barrelled on. "Anyway, I'm sure you know firsthand just how. . . volatile fire can be. It didn't take well to many of the modifications; now he can't so much as light a candle. The loss hit him hard. He's quite mad now, though remains a challenging opponent, if only because one can never be sure what he's going to do next."

Anakin felt sick.

Being _violated_ like that, poked and prodded until the thing that had provided you with warmth and light and _power_ your whole life fled, leaving you forever alone in the cold and the dark—

He pulled himself together just in time to hear Cylo continue, "Well, I learned from my mistakes with him, I believe. We have two other fire magicians—excluding yourself, of course—here, and I endeavoured not to have the same thing happen again. Morit and Aiolin are of the Astarte line—you've heard of them, I assume?" Anakin had. "Their parents were some of the early opposition to His Highness's ascension, and when it seemed inevitable they handed the twins over in hopes of a lighter sentence."

Anakin had to ask. ". . .did they receive it?"

"No. They burned alive in their manor as their own soldiers marched against them." The same way Padmé and the twins had died. "His Highness continued to torment the twins—visit the sins of the parents upon the children, if you will. But eventually he tired of them and they were handed over to me. I heard he got another set of twins to delight in—with his abilities, the natural connection between twins' minds has long fascinated him. Particularly if they shared gifts similar to his own, as this new pair did. Fire magicians with some mind magician blood, I believe." Like Luke and Leia had been. "A curious combination—would that I had the chance to study them.

"Anyway, Morit and Aiolin are two of my masterpieces. Their bodies are enhanced in such a way that they can pull off feats otherwise unheard of in a human. And they are brilliant: cold, calculating, immensely capable. . . loyal only to His Highness and each other, though even the latter tie has been known to break. . . I'm even looking to install rockets into their hands and feet, as ambitious as it sounds—just imagine! A person flying into the air of their own accord!" He grinned at Anakin. "Perhaps I should rename them Skywalker."

Anakin made to punch that smug look right off his face, but the servant had his arm encased in a metal armguard and would not let go.

"But, most importantly, they retain their ability to manipulate fire, so that should be an interesting fight against you." He paused, thinking. "Particularly if His Highness decides to pit them both against you at once. . .

"Ah, and last but by no means least: Tulon Voidgazer. A distant relative of His Highness, in fact, and subsequently your late wife"—the servant had to strain to hold Anakin back at _that_ comment—"but then, I suppose all you magical nobles are distant relatives of each other, aren't you? It's how we see powers shift from one bloodline to another—Skywalkers can no longer fly, after all." He smiled, a little maliciously. Anakin just glared.

"But I'm getting off topic. Voidgazer had a weak ability for mind manipulation at best. His Highness saw nothing to lose in handing her over to my tender care—indeed, there was everything to gain. Even after the experimentation, she couldn't so much as manipulate a fly. . . but she _could_ manipulate her machines. It's like a hive mind: she doesn't fight herself; her machines do so on her behalf."

Anakin was feeling more and more ill by the minute. Just _thinking_ about the sort of pain these people would have gone through—the abominations Cylo had created—

He needed to run.

He needed to _get out of here_, more so now than ever. Away—away from this blasphemous scientist, away from the sadistic monarch who indulged him. Away from this arena, away from these _games_—

Bu the breaking point didn't come until Cylo opened his mouth again.

"You know, I have to wonder—I've heard that your wife also had negligible skill in that area, despite her bloodline. And the children you had with her were twins, correct? The three of them would have been _perfect_ for mine and His Highness's experiments."

Anakin saw red.

* * *

"Really, my boy, you didn't expect that escape attempt to actually _work_, did you?"

Anakin glared at him. His face still throbbed from the punch the stormtrooper on his left had thrown him; his head still throbbed from where the stormtrooper on his right had slammed it into the ground.

They hadn't taken him back to that first cell, much to his surprise, but it didn't matter. His new "gladiator" quarters were no less caging.

Especially with _him_ sitting on the bed, awaiting his return.

"Perhaps not," Anakin spat out, a glob of blood hitting the floor at Palpatine's feet. "But I had to try." For the principle of the thing, if nothing else.

Palpatine watched him carefully for a moment. "You don't want to be here?"

His tone was calm, but silky; slippery. It seemed like a test, a threat, but. . . what was he testing? Surely he knew just how much he wanted to leave—how much he _hated_ him?

Palpatine was watching him like a hawk. Anakin hesitated. . .

. . .and threw caution to the wind.

"Of _course_ I don't want to be here, you—"

"If you are unhappy with your place in the arena, I am still in need of an adjutant. An. . . apprentice."

"I will _never_ serve you."

"Why not? I can give you whatever you desire. Money—"

"I don't care about—"

"—power—"

"I don't _want_ power—"

"—or even your darling twins back."

Anakin froze. Froze, then _burned_, because—

"You _killed_ Luke and Leia."

"Please, Anakin. You know I have an interest in the psychology of twins—Cylo told you about my stint with the Astartes, didn't he? The Astartes were easy, I studied them and there wasn't much to know. But your twins were young, powerful, even of my own bloodline. Of course I kept them. It would have been a waste, otherwise."

Anakin collapsed to his knees, the troopers restraining him letting him fall.

Then—

That meant—

It was barely more than a whisper, the desperate, desperate hope of a desperate, desperate man.

"They're alive?"

Even now, Palpatine smiled fondly.

It was like he'd known it would be that news which finally broke Anakin. He probably had. It didn't take a mind-reader to figure it out, and even if it _did_. . .

"Yes, my boy," he said warmly. "Your twins are alive—I've been taking good care of them these past seven years. They've grown powerful; you should be very proud."

Anakin, still on his knees on the floor, clenched his fists. "You— you _stole_ them from me, you—"

"Yes. I did." Palpatine raised an eyebrow. "Would you like them back?"

Anakin tried to get his breathing under control.

"I'm sure they'd be thrilled to see you again too, Anakin. Did you know it took them three years before they stopped waking up screaming for their father?"

Anakin's fingernails dug into his palms; rivulets of blood ran down his arm.

They'd been twelve.

He knew that. He'd always known that. They'd been twelve when the attack had come, with their whole lives ahead of them. Anakin had just been about to start teaching them the finer details of the fire they all shared. . .

But, _now_. . .

They'd been twelve when they'd watched Palpatine murder their mother before their eyes—no, when they'd watched him tear into her mind and made her plunge the knife into her own heart. . . they'd been twelve when they saw their family manor, and every comforting truth along with it, burn down around them. . . they'd been twelve when they'd been dragged away into Palpatine's tender care, treated like animals in a study.

They'd been _children_.

Anakin started at Palpatine, that despicable, despicable man, and said, "I hate you."

"I assumed as much. But do you want them back?"

"Of _course_ I want them back, you—"

"Then here's the deal." His voice hardened from its grandfatherly tones to something like a threat. "You will fight in my arena. I don't trust you as my right-hand, yet"—Anakin, knowing Palpatine, doubted he'd ever trust him at all—"but you can and will serve me as a gladiator. Demonstrate the power of my engineered servants—"

"I'm neither engineered nor your servant."

"They don't have to know. Do this, and I will allow you to see your children again."

His pulse beat its wings in his throat, but he pushed. "_See_?"

"See. Perhaps, if you win enough matches, I'll allow you to move to a different compound and live with them—still under my supervision, of course. But I would've thought that you'd be as anxious to reunite your family as possible."

"I am." There was no point in hiding it; Palpatine could read him like a book. Palpatine _knew_. "But I don't trust that you won't rip it apart again whenever you feel like it."

"I've tired of experimenting with your twins. They can read each other's thoughts, but no one else's; I have accepted there's nothing else I can do to change that. I have no need of them any longer. So." He held out a hand. "Do we have a deal, Anakin Skywalker?"

Anakin carefully pushed himself to his feet and stepped forward. The troopers didn't try to stop him.

He looked into Palpatine's gold eyes, like two burnished coins, and narrowed his own. Palpatine was a known liar. Just yesterday he was telling Anakin his twins were dead; now, the moment it was convenient, his song had changed. Anakin had no guarantee he was telling the truth. . . unless. . .

"Show me the twins," he challenged, "and once you've proved your claims, I'll make my decision."

Palpatine smiled faintly at his gall, but shook his head.

Anakin sucked in a breath. So. No proof would be provided; no proof would be forthcoming.

He might be selling his soul, his life, his talents, for nothing but empty hopes.

But. . .

_But. . ._

This was Luke and Leia.

This was Luke, who always looked the epitome of innocence when he was in trouble, and made sure to teach his sister that skill too.

This was Leia, who shouted back when shouted at, and left her father gaping and mother grinning when she argued with a cool logic beyond her years.

These were his _children_.

If there was the slightest chance they were alive. . . he had to take it.

So he lifted his chin and looked Palpatine in the eye. He knew the old man had seen his decision.

His hand was cold and clammy when he shook it.

* * *

The next morning dawned bright, and found Anakin in an empty training room, acclimatising himself to the sensation of moving with the armour on.

It wasn't easy: Anakin's typical fighting style involved a lot of motion; while he couldn't perform the flips he'd pulled off in his youth, he was still heavily reliant on his ability to move quickly. The suit restricted that, especially the mask, and he often struggled to take deep enough breaths.

He hated the sound of his breathing at all, in that mask. It was too loud in his ears. It rasped.

He sighed, and resumed his defensive stance. The fire came easily, rushing out of his fingertips and painting the air gold, red, blue. He turned, channelling it into a direct bolt—

A voice made him pause.

He frowned. Strode over to the door and peered out, down the corridor. Two women were standing beside a window that overlooked the arena. Their voices were hushed as they conversed, their heads bent together.

"You're insane, Astarte," the taller woman said. The only mask she wore was a pair of tinted goggles, her hair pulled back behind her head. But Anakin's attention was drawn to the spheres hovering about her head. They moved with her voice, and her fidgeting. "You and your brother."

The other woman—Astarte; Aiolin?—smiled tightly. Anakin couldn't see much of her front from this angle—the long, pale hair that hung nearly to her waist was in the way—but he caught the glint of a bronze mask covering her face.

"Perhaps we are," she said. Her voice had a faint burr to it, likely from whatever it was Cylo had done to her; Anakin couldn't remember. "But we don't intend on being arena slaves forever." A pause. As if Aiolin knew her companion was listening hard, she pressed, "Talk to Cylo. It was his idea. And you know what he's always been saying—and you know what's right."

Her voice dropped. Despite himself, Anakin leaned in closer to hear her say, "If we're greater than a natural human, why should we be subject to one?"

The other woman—Voidgazer, Anakin was starting to suspect, the names Cylo had rattled off yesterday slowly resurfacing—barely changed expression. He could tell she agreed, nonetheless—she _nodded_, smiling slowly—and that made him. . . nervous.

Did the other gladiators have some sort of mutual alliance going on, supported by Cylo? Was— was that plans for a _coup_ he'd just overheard?

He wasn't opposed to a coup against Palpatine—quite the contrary. But to have one tyrant replaced with Cylo's. . . _creatures_, who had abilities known only to each other. . .

He'd have to stop that. That could be as much—if not more—of a cancer on society as Palpatine was.

Anakin swallowed.

What had he just got himself into?

These political games were not what he'd had in mind.

He swallowed again.

But he'd play them anyway.

He had to.

For Luke and Leia.

There wasn't anything else he could do.

* * *

His first fight was scheduled for 1600 hours that day, against someone with the stage name _Commander Karbin_. Anakin doubted he actually had any military experience.

The arena was thronged when he stood by the entrance, peering out. Massive signs had been erected around the city overnight, advertising _Darth Vader_, the newest gladiator; the seats of the coliseum were packed.

Anakin had known how popular Palpatine's games were—he'd certainly sent enough agents to infiltrate them—but it was one thing to read the reports, or even sit in the stands. Stepping out onto the sand of the ring, meanwhile, and _smelling_ the salt of the sweat and the blood of the fights from earlier that day, hearing the roaring of the crowd when they laid eyes on the menacing figure he cut in black, feeling the vibrations through his skull, tasting the bile at the back of his throat when he laid eyes on—

On—

What _was_ that?

It was a human. He thought. At least, it had been. Once.

In all of Cylo's prattling, Anakin had never once stopped to wonder what Commander Karbin might _look like_.

He had a human head: hairless and burnt and scarred to an angry reddish colour, but human nonetheless. There were two circular pieces of glass in front of his face, making his eyes look unnaturally large, unblinking; Anakin wondered if they were supposed to serve as spectacles.

But the legs were the worst part.

Karbin walked hunched over, on all fours. All _sixes_, rather: two metal struts emerged from the stumps of his shoulders, hinge-like joints halfway down them to allow for the facsimile of limbs. Two more rods sprouted from where his thighs should have been, a last two struts emerging from _them_. All the 'legs' had hinges much as the 'arms' did; they clattered and clinked when he moved. Anakin was reminded of nothing more than a massive metal spider.

It turned Anakin's stomach, as much in pity as disgust. This was what Cylo's curiosity had done; this was what Palpatine's ambition had allowed. They had taken an innocent person, put him through so much pain, and then they had made him fight.

They had forced _Anakin_ to fight it.

A klaxon blared, and Karbin charged.

There was no time for pity; pity would get him killed. He automatically made to duck out of the way of those pincer-like legs and barely missed getting sliced in half: he still wasn't used to how heavy this suit was. How restrictive.

He expected Cylo had intentionally made it so, lest he defeat his engineered monstrosities and make them all seem weak.

A moment's pause, then the fire flooded out of him. It rolled over Karbin. He screamed.

But he kept coming.

Perhaps he'd burned so much that the pain no longer slowed him down.

His front legs caught Anakin in the chest; he was sent crashing back, _flying_. The armour saved him from getting skewered but he hit the ground _hard_, rolling.

The sand rushed into the joints of the armour. It scratched and ground at the metal as he heaved himself back to his feet.

Gods, Anakin _hated_ sand.

Karbin charged him again. Metal shrieked and screeched as he ripped his own front leg from its stump and shredded it with his bare hands. The shards hovered in midair for one moment, twisted and wrecked and _sharp_, then barrelled at Anakin. Much, much faster than Karbin had.

He had no time to dodge.

After so many years in rebellion, he'd had one thought drilled into him: a good defence is an offence. He brought his hands up on instinct, fire roaring to life before him like a shield—

_Like _a shield. It wasn't solid. It _wasn't_ a shield.

All it did was turn the deadly-sharp metal shards shooting for him into deadly-sharp _red hot_ metal shards shooting for him.

His armour took the blow. It clanged and hissed; he hissed with it, jerking back. His shoulder burned.

But otherwise, the damn armour had saved his life. He swore under his breath.

He needed to finish this.

Karbin was charging him again, like it was the only thing he knew how to do anymore. For the first time, Anakin _watched_ him, carefully.

Karbin was a metal magician. Metal was solid: malleable, but it was more corporeal than fire. It was easier to dodge.

As long as Anakin stayed out of immediate range of those legs, he could—theoretically—dodge whatever Karbin threw at him.

And in the meantime. . .

Anakin was one of the most powerful fire magicians to ever live. The Skywalkers were an infamously strong bloodline.

Even if these crowds had no idea who they were watching. . . he'd remind them why.

He reached for the inferno inside him, even as he ducked out of the way of another barrage. He kept moving backwards, around the edge of the arena, staying as far from Karbin as he could. The armour wore down on him the more he moved, but he ignored it. It had already saved his life once.

The roar of the crowd was loud in his ears. It seemed to hurt Karbin—he twitched at every shout.

Anakin pitied him even more.

But not enough to die for his glory.

The inferno came when Anakin summoned it, a massive cyclone of fire that erupted suddenly, the crowd's shouts turning to screams. He was peripherally aware of some people in the front row leaning back, shielding their faces, but he didn't turn to them. He kept his gaze on Karbin, narrowing the cyclone into something smaller, faster, hotter.

Karbin shrieked.

Even that sounded mechanical. Anakin tried not to wince as he heard it.

Karbin collapsed. His flesh body fell to the floor; the metal appendices collapsed around him.

The crowd went silent.

Anakin approached slowly, waiting for Karbin to get up, throw some more metal at him, anything.

He didn't move. Couldn't.

Anakin stepped forward once more, called the flames back to hand. They burned blue, then white, in his grip.

He crouched beside Karbin. The poor man's breathing was ragged; his eyes stared into the sky, unseeing. Angry burns choked his skin.

He was not going to survive this.

The regret in Anakin's chest increased. The most merciful thing he could do now was give him a quick death: he drew the flames hotter, tighter, prepared to—

The loudspeaker crackled through the arena. _"And the winner is. . . Darth Vader!"_

A cheer rose.

_"Your Highness,"_ the commentator continued once the cheer died, _"does the defeated deserve to live?"_

Despite himself, Anakin looked up at the Emperor's box, right at the front of the arena. He'd almost forgotten Palpatine was there.

He almost regretted that the mask hid the glare he treated him to.

"Both contestants have fought well," Palpatine said benevolently. There was open amusement on his face when he looked at Anakin. "He shall live."

_Live._

Palpatine must be mocking him. There was no way Karbin would survive the night, with these injuries.

Anakin shook his head. He had fought this petty fight for Palpatine; he had not reneged on his deal. But he would go no further.

He would grant this poor man mercy in death the way he'd never received it in life.

He turned his back on Palpatine. The collective gasp that ran through the crowd, the Emperor's chuckle, the man vaulting the edge of the arena to run and stop him, it all meant nothing. He raised his hand, fire lancing up like a spear , then brought it down—

Then recoiled as it rebounded, right in his face.

The metal of his helmet was uncomfortable hot on his skin. He stumbled back, hands in front of him; it was only his natural reflex that had him redirecting the next spurt of fire that was aimed at him. He planted his feet, shoulders tensed, ready to deflect another—

But his assailant just stood over Karbin, watching him with an amused tilt to his head.

The mask hid any other family resemblance. It was the hair colour that gave it away, identical to Aiolin's in a way that seemed unnatural, even for twins. It just added to feeling Anakin got from the Astartes: they were so much more machine than human.

"Step aside, Astarte," he hissed. Morit cocked his head.

"His Highness ordered that Karbin be kept alive, so he will be kept alive. Or there will be consequences for your disobedience."

_Luke and Leia._ Anger boiled in him. "Are you _threatening_—"

"No. I don't know who you are. I don't know who to threaten. But there are _always_ consequences for disobedience, Vader."

Anakin frowned, and gestured to Karbin. "He won't survive the night. He'll die either way; this is just more merciful."

"Mercy has no place here. These are the Emperor's orders." Something in his tone was almost mocking. It simultaneously angered and disgusted Anakin, when he remembered what he'd heard Aiolin say.

The Astartes would suck up to and obey Palpatine slavishly. . . until they could seize power for themselves.

He glared at him. "You're an insult to fire magicians everywhere."

"Perhaps I am. If I'm an insult to you, clearly I've done something right." Morit's mask only covered his eyes and nose; Anakin could see the wicked smirk he gave just perfectly. "I don't care. Are you going to stand down, or will you pay the price?"

Anakin thought of his children.

He stood down.

* * *

Karbin died shortly before midnight, on a table under Cylo's watchful eye. He had allowed no one else to treat him.

Anakin pitied him. The thought of spending your last hours in agony, watched over by someone more curious than compassionate. . . it was awful.

But not as awful as losing Luke and Leia again. So he said nothing.

And when he was sent into the arena again the next day, he fought just as viciously as ever.


	2. Hellfire

The notoriety of Darth Vader only grew over the next few weeks. Anakin won match after match—not all of them with as severe injuries as Karbin, though he certainly sent Trandoshan to an early grave as well. He did his utmost to stamp down on the guilt he felt—it wouldn't help him here.

And every day, Palpatine came down to his quarters personally to congratulate him. Every day, Anakin demanded he get to see the twins again.

Every day, Palpatine refused.

It had been three weeks.

Anakin was particularly tense one morning. He knew Palpatine's precious Empire Day was coming up in only a few days—the festivities were everywhere. They'd just exited the lecture Cylo gave them about _the grand performance of strength_ they'd be demonstrating at the planned exhibition, so it was no wonder Anakin was so. . . on edge.

Cylo had said that Palpatine would be dredging gifted magicians from every corner of the Empire to fight and die in this showdown. He was reportedly emptying his cells of them and sending them to their deaths this way. It was an execution, but worse than that: it was _sport_.

And, even worse than all that: Palpatine still refused to let Anakin see the twins.

It was. . . suspicious. Especially given that with distance, Anakin was growing more and more skeptical over whether or not he'd been telling the truth about them.

He was. He _had_ to be. Because otherwise all this hope Anakin had suddenly gained. . .

. . . it would all be for nothing.

So, if they _were_ alive, an almost-as-equally terrible suspicion had kindled in his mind.

Palpatine needed magicians for his showdown. He needed all the magicians he could get.

Luke and Leia were young, _powerful_ magicians. What was more: they were directly in his reach, and the man had said himself that he had no use for them anymore.

What if. . .

Did that mean. . .

Anakin did _not_, by any stretch of the imagination, put it past Palpatine to pit his children against them in the showdown itself. To pit them against _him_ in particular.

It was exactly the sort of twisted machination he so revelled in.

* * *

The thoughts dogged him, everywhere.

The next day he stormed out of the training room, ignoring the some of the gladiators' mocking shouts as they chased him down the hall. He stopped at one window overlooking the arena—the sand was still bloody from that morning's fight, between Voidgazer and Aiolin—and clenched his hands around the windowsill so hard he felt it start to smoke under his hands.

"Brooding again, Vader?"

Anakin whirled on him, on that insufferable _boy_, with ideas and arrogance that far outstripped reality. "_What_," he ground out, glaring down into the eyeholes of Morit's mask, "do you want?"

He smirked his usual smirk—one that seemed to double in arrogance if only to ensure any doubt was covered. Never show weakness: that was one lesson Morit had clearly learned well.

"Only to inform you that I'm the one who'll have the pleasure of fighting you this afternoon," he said, "since you stormed out before Cylo could explain that. I look forward to wiping the floor with you."

Anakin's fists tightened further. There was a _pop_, then suddenly his fingers were wreathed in flame.

Morit tossed him one more mocking smile, then turned around to join Aiolin, watching from a little way along the hall with amusement.

Morit did not beat Anakin later that day.

Anakin wiped the floor with him. Once the burns healed, he sported a permanent scar that stretched from the left corner of his lip to halfway up his nose.

It didn't stop him from smiling. And it didn't make the smiles any more benign when he did.

* * *

The satisfaction of raking his fire across Morit's face like some sort of vengeful, bloodthirsty angel haunted him—_what was he becoming?—_but it was irrelevant to everything else.

Hope and sheer desperation could only power someone for so long. That evening, doubt set in.

Were Luke and Leia even alive, or was Palpatine just stringing him along?

How did he know that _anything_ said to him was true?

"Hey," he said out loud. The guards who stood at his door day and night paused in their conversation briefly, but then the murmurs persisted and they ignored him. "_Hey_!"

One of them rammed the door with the butt of his short sword. The voice was muffled by the door. "_What_?"

"I just have a question."

A brief murmuring, the guard no doubt exchanging a look with his companion out of sheer disbelief, then, cautiously, "Ask away."

"Have you ever seen a pair of twins around here?" Anakin asked before he could stop himself, before he could _regret it_.

"The Astartes?" one guard said dubiously—Anakin didn't think it was the first guard who'd spoken.

"_No._" He was offended by the mere idea. "Not any of the gladiators. They don't look like twins, but they're siblings—one boy, one girl. Dark-haired girl, light-haired boy. They'd be about nineteen at the moment."

There was a moment of silence, a faint humming, then— "Short for their age?"

Hope mounted. "Yes."

"Oh, yeah, I was on duty in—" A harsh whisper from the accompanying guard. "Well, in some other cells or bedrooms—all of them had bunk beds for sharing, y'know. Few years ago, at least. One of the rooms was occupied by two siblings. Dunno if they were twins, though. They didn't look it."

"No," Anakin said breathlessly, hope mounting and mounting and _mounting_— "They don't." Accurate.

"They creeped me out. Seemed to spend more time in each other's heads or speaking some silent language only they knew than interacting with any other lowly mortals."

. . .also accurate.

Anakin let out a sigh. "I— thank you," he said.

"Why'd you wanna know?"

He didn't answer. The other guard hissed something at him, but Anakin stopped listening.

The twins could be anyone. The guard could be mistaken. The guard could be lying. Palpatine could put him up to this. Palpatine could have specially imprisoned children who looked like Luke and Leia to confuse him and manipulate him into doing this—

The sad thing was, he wouldn't even put it past Palpatine to do that.

But. . . well. This was evidence. Flimsy evidence, albeit, but. . .

It was enough to keep his hopes up for just a few more days.

* * *

Anakin kept fighting, and he kept seeing the foundations of this _coup_ start to be laid down around him. Gladiators who'd once sparred as an excuse to hurt each other now sparred as an excuse to talk—_subtly_, but it was there.

Anakin fought Voidgazer, Aiolin, several more gladiators who seemed as inhuman as Karbin had, and it was easy to see the difference, now.

Before, they'd been all about winning. _Winning_, whatever the cost may be. Now, they were more focused on _surviving_.

If they were dead, they wouldn't be there to see Palpatine fall, after all.

Cylo smiled what seemed like the whole time. It was unnerving.

* * *

Anakin fought the Astartes again five days later. _Because Morit still has not fully recovered_, Cylo had said delicately, Anakin rolling his eyes at the fact that he had been sparring with his sister for over two days now, _Vader will go up against both of them at once._

Anakin didn't know whether he was dreading or anticipating it.

He couldn't deny that after everything, he wanted to beat them both to a pulp again.

The actual fight, as usual, was prefaced by the Astartes'. . . caginess. Every time Anakin turned around that morning, one or both of them seemed to be talking to one of the other contestants in that unnatural web of alliances they were spinning over the whole coliseum. Both still wore that cocky, intimidating-before-they-could-be-intimidated-first smile, but Anakin noticed something different about them this time. They seemed. . . tense.

Something was coming.

He heard, more than once, them mention _Empire Day_, and that brought his suspicions to a new level.

Palpatine had put so much emphasis on his precious celebrations—and the gladiators would be at the centre of them.

Was Cylo. . . were they all planning. . .?

Anakin narrowed his eyes at the doctor across the training room. He stood with his hands folded behind his back watching two gladiators spar.

Of course they were.

"This is all very. . . sudden," Anakin heard behind him. He turned to see Voidgazer murmuring something to a gladiator Anakin hadn't had the displeasure of facing off against yet. He edged closer—

"Cylo sanctioned this?" the other gladiator continued, narrowing her eyes slightly behind her mask.

"He did," Voidgazer confirmed, "I heard it from him myself. We can—"

She was cut off by Aiolin's shout of, "Eavesdropping again, Vader?"

_Again_? She knew about the first time?

He scowled under his mask, and just stalked off without dignifying her with an answer.

Which was how he found himself in a corridor he'd never seen before, in one of the upper levels of the coliseum. This floor had guards at every entrance, but they waved Anakin past with hardly a flinch—he supposed this mask and damned suit were pretty recognisable.

The people milling about, were. . . odd. They seemed to vibrate with some inner—but _different_—energies. Some seemed spoiling for a fight; others. . .

Other seemed utterly terrified.

They were all wearing the same simple outfit. Pale robes. Easy to move in, but they looked cold.

Even with that, it wasn't until Anakin saw the man—boy, really—standing by the window that overlooked the arena, watching some of the gladiators spar, that he put it all together.

His blue-black hair was longer, shaggier than he remembered—Mira and Ephraim had mastered the art of cutting it short enough to be neat, but long enough to suit him—but it was him.

"Ezra Bridger."

He'd been of one of the more powerful bloodlines. Had the ability to shake the earth—literally. _And_ something to do with wolves, on his mother's side, but Anakin had never quite understood that.

He'd been friends with Luke and Leia. Older than them by a bare two days.

Ezra flinched when he heard his voice. Right; Anakin had forgotten how strange this mask made it sound. He was starting to get used to it, almost, which scared him.

Ezra tilted his head back and glared. "What?"

_These_ were all the magicians Palpatine had gathered for his precious Empire Day celebrations.

He might be fighting Ezra Bridger out in that arena, soon, he thought.

But it was only a fleeting thought. A more pertinent one—and a far, far more important one—was that Luke and Leia might be in this room.

He immediately whipped his head around, searching, heart leaping every time he spotted a head of blond or brown hair—

But no. There was a number of people that age and younger in this room, but none of them were his children.

Ezra's glare had grown confused, but it was still a glare. "_What_?"

Anakin hesitated, but he might as well ask—

He took a step forward. "Ezra—"

"_Vader_?"

He cursed under his breath.

Aiolin strolled in, and smirked. Funny, though—he could clearly see the flash of panic that it had covered.

"Aren't you supposed to be looming down there like some overgrown bat?" She glanced at Ezra. "He's the one who gave my brother that nasty new scar, you know."

Anakin watched Ezra's face tighten a little, though he couldn't have said what with.

"I see," he said. "And is your brother alright?"

Why would he care? He had no reason to care.

Unless—

Anakin resisted the urge to glance around.

Unless the Astartes were recruiting _everyone_ to their little coup. Unless their web was something far more widespread than Anakin had even begun to fathom.

Which meant—

Well. It meant Anakin's Rebel cells needed to get a hold on their information, if _that_ large a coup could be organised without them knowing.

Aiolin waved her hand. "Fit as a fiddle. We're actually facing off against this guy"—she jabbed a thumb at Anakin—"in less than an hour. You'll see us out the window here.

"Which reminds me," she added to Anakin, "that's why I'm here. You have to go downstairs and get ready."

"And why didn't you just _say so_?"

"I heard you bothering Ezra here."

"_Now_ who's eavesdropping?"

Aiolin just smiled. Ezra looked on.

And Anakin scowled at his own ignorance—and the increasing feeling that he had absolutely no idea what was going on.

* * *

But he still had to fight the Astartes.

And he still wanted to win.

Both because Palpatine had said that the more he won, the more likely it was that he got to see Luke and Leia again. . . and also because the idea of losing to the _Astartes_ offended him on every single level.

The motions of starting a fight were intimately familiar to him by now. The moment he'd descended the stairs, Cylo and his minions had been on him like flies on a corpse, and he'd been shoved down further to one of the waiting and entrance chambers gladiators would emerge from. He waited in the dark for what seemed like hours, perched on the hard stone bench no matter how uncomfortable it was in his armour, before the door opened again.

He'd never admit it, but when he did that every day, it made him _excited_ to get out onto the sands of the arena. If only to escape the boredom of the darkness.

So he was on his feet, raring to go, when the door opened. But it wasn't Cylo or one of the many directors of these games who stepped in.

Once again, Anakin loathed the secrecy of the helmet. Palpatine could only guess at the strength of the glower he directed him—though, if he was reading his mind, he supposed he could sense the hatred just as well.

"I want to see Luke and Leia," he said immediately. Palpatine hadn't even shut the door behind him yet.

But he just laughed. "Patience, my boy. You'll see them soon, I can promise you. Very soon."

"This evening?" Anakin pushed. "After I've won this match?"

"Perhaps even sooner," Palpatine said, smiling faintly. "I heard you stumbled upon the cache of magicians I've put together for the showdowns in a few days. Who was it you were talking to—that Bridger boy? I was thinking that it might be entertaining if during or immediately after your fight, I throw some of them in. Test their mettle."

Anakin went cold. "No—you don't have—" Palpatine just smiled. "Not Luke and Leia, no—"

"Or perhaps not," he conceded. "I'm sure there'll be quite enough fireworks between you and the Astartes as it is. Three fire magicians." He said the words with relish.

Anakin tore his helmet off and threw it at Palpatine's feet, as much so he could glare freely as in act of rebellion. "_Let me see my children_."

"Put that on." There was no joking around in Palpatine's voice, now. Anakin got the sense that had he been anyone else, his head would have shifted, glanced around, checked that no one was here to see it. But he wasn't anyone else, and there was, of course, no one. "You are not to take it off outside of your quarters. You know that."

"Or _what_?"

"You know that too, dear boy." Palpatine's voice regained some of its slick self-assuredness, and Anakin regained his fear. "I've told you before what the consequences of defiance will be."

Anakin swallowed. He had.

"_Put that back on_."

He put it back on.

Palpatine smiled. "There now," he said, "isn't that better? You will see your twins in good time," he added, before Anakin could say anything. "All in good time."

He left the room.

At least this time the wait was less. He was only in the darkness for a brief time before the doors opened, as well as the large gates that opened onto the arena. Anakin didn't bother looking at the troopers who came to prod him forward, and didn't give them a reason to do so—he strode out into the sun of his own accord. As impractical as it was, he took a petty, insignificant satisfaction in the way his cape snapped around his heels.

The roar of the crowd was a minor thing to him now; a nuisance. He idly wondered how much larger it would be on Empire Day, when the masses Palpatine had promised turned up to watch.

The Astartes entered at the same time as well. They were as impassive to the cheering as he was: they just strode out, masks glinting in the light, not quite _perfectly_ in sync with each other but _naturally_ in sync, their footsteps measured and even. It was simultaneously impressive and intimidating to watch.

Or, it would have been intimidating to lesser men than Anakin Skywalker.

That wasn't what caught his interest, though.

The crowds were at the wrong angle. They couldn't see it. But Anakin could.

The moment before they stepped into the light, they pressed their foreheads together in something like an embrace, hands clasped in front of them. It was an oddly intimate moment, one he almost felt guilty for intruding on—one that reminded him, suddenly, that this was a set of twins nearly the same age as _his_ children, who'd no doubt had their lives torn apart just as young.

And by Palpatine.

Always by Palpatine.

No wonder they were masterminding their coup.

Once he'd seen that, though, others of their small gestures of affection became apparent. As they walked towards the centre of the arena, hidden between their bodies, Aiolin pressed Morit's palm with two fingers and he squeezed it back.

Their unison didn't seem unnatural anymore. It seemed like the most natural thing in the world.

The blare of the speakers broke him out of his reverie. He planted his feet in the sand and braced for the fight.

The twins exchanged a look, and then there was a spear of fire shooting for him, faster than a comet. He swore—loudly, if Morit's smirk was anything to go by—and ducked out of the way. He wasn't used to feeling his armour heat up like this—usually, _he_ was the one throwing fire.

Another spear came, this time from Aiolin, and he threw himself back again, hating how _slow_ this armour made him. The twins moved until they paced around him in a circle, trapping him inside in a building ring, a whirlwind, _hurricane_ of fire—

Like the one he'd killed Karbin with.

This was _insulting_.

He flashed his head back and forth. Aiolin punched forward and sent a shot hurtling his way and he dodged, kicking his leg up and _seizing_ that fire—

He sensed the fire Morit summoned behind him and pivoted to unleash Aiolin's blast.

He blasted Morit back. He hit the sand hard, glassing sand wherever he stood, grunting as crimson burns sprung up over his legs—

Anakin stepped forward—

—but Aiolin's scream of rage yanked him round to block another assault, burning and heated and _desperate_. She charged forward, closer to her brother, so close he could see her muscles rippling until her skin as she whipped her arms round—

—and a fireball hit _Anakin_ in the chest.

He stumbled but didn't fall. His lungs screamed, his eyes watered; he could only see a vaguely gold and white blur and there was more gold and more heat—

And heat from behind him, _so much heat_. _All_ he could see was gold; then his vision cleared and the Astartes were standing side by side again, glaring down at him, gold and red and blue and bright, bright white in the light of the _tornado_ they'd summoned, Morit's mask crumbling to ashes—

He slashed his hand down and another blast raked across Anakin. A thinner one: a whip of fire, so hot it was nothing but searing white light, and it tore right through the metal of his helmet.

He threw himself back, and that was the only reason it didn't rip his right eye out. His face was aflame.

He could have handled Morit alone. He _had_ handled Morit alone. But the Astartes, _together_. . .

He needed to get out of here.

His head was nothing but a blur of pain and light. He staggered back—thank the _gods_ they'd stopped pacing around him, like predators around a felled lamb, _he was not prey_—and just kept backing up, and up—

He needed to end this. He _had_ to end this. He had to survive, his children needed him—

So he threw out his hand and summoned everything he had for one final, desperate shot. The inferno that roared to life before it could have burned the entire kingdom down.

The Astartes saw it coming.

He didn't see which one of them snatched it from his grasp. It didn't _matter_ which one of them snatched it from his grasp. What _mattered_ was that it was roaring right back at him, intensifying and intensifying, and he gasped as it scorched his helmet, his neck, his shoulders, his _face_—

Forget his helmet getting crushed with his head inside it; what about getting _cooked like a boiled egg_—

He couldn't breathe. He couldn't _breathe_—

Palpatine's rules be damned, he wasn't any help to anyone dead. He used his last scrap of focus to _shove_ the rest of _his_ fire away and ripped the helmet from his head, gasping for air.

The Astartes froze.

Had this breach of protocol shaken them so badly? Anakin didn't have the energy to be amused—only reluctantly relieved as the flames _vanished_, leaving nothing but coarse sand and smooth glass in their wake.

And Morit left footprints in both as he stepped forward. He extinguished the flame in his hand. The glass that had already cooled cracked underfoot.

Aiolin remained behind him, apparently frozen in shock.

So Anakin kept his gaze on Morit as he approached. There wasn't a hint of his smirk to be seen—for once, he looked strangely vulnerable, and only when he noticed _that_ did it hit Anakin that maybe he'd seen him before.

Morit's pale gaze danced over Anakin's face, the cleft in the chin, the shape of the nose, to the nasty burn wound he'd ripped in it moments before.

Palpatine was shouting something. None of the three were listening.

Morit reached up, and removed the tatters of his own mask.

The first thing Anakin noticed was the scar ripped in the side of _his_ face—the tail end of which twisted his lips. The one Anakin had given him days ago. It bisected his right eyebrow, exactly where Morit's retaliating strike had hit Anakin.

Then his gaze moved across the rest of the now-exposed face, and he too forgot how to breathe.

It was sooty. It was pale, from long hours behind a mask. It was red, from where the scar tissue was still healing.

Morit turned to look at Aiolin, who stepped forward to remove her own mask as well. She let her hair down as she did; now, at this angle, Anakin could see the streaks of brown where the dye hadn't taken to it quite so well. He'd _thought_ that their hair colours were too similar to be natural.

None of them blinked. Palpatine was still shouting.

Then the twins exchanged one of their loaded glances, and said in unison the one word Anakin had thought he'd never hear from them again:

"Father?"


	3. Good Intentions

**This is the last chapter! I hope you've enjoyed this short fic. I wish I could've spent more time on it and its concept but I don't have the time or energy to take on another full length fic with all the other plans I have, so I'm happy with what I've got here :) **

* * *

Anakin blinked.

He gaped.

He took a staggering step forward.

"Luke?"

Morit—no, _not_ Morit—smiled, the first he'd seen on him that wasn't malicious.

He dragged his gaze over to not-Aiolin and stared there too.

"Leia?"

She'd foregone the smile for something more akin to what Anakin was feeling: confusion and shock and a slow, burgeoning rage—

"Father," they said again in unison. Instead of sneering, like Anakin always had at the Astartes, he found himself tearing up.

Palpatine was shouting again, and Anakin, incandescent with rage, turned to him. His eyes _burned—_

And then they froze.

He'd never know which of the approaching troopers it was who fired the shot, but there was the _bang_ of a gun and Anakin's heart of fire turned to ice at the scream.

Luke—_Luke, face still bloody from the wound _he'd_ inflicted_—crumpled, hand going to his shoulder. Blood swelled.

Leia took a half-step towards her brother—_shielding him_—and held out her hand to her father—

Another shot narrowly missed her hand. She flinched, got the hint, and retracted her hand. She rested it on Luke's uninjured shoulder instead.

Anakin watched the way she stuck close to her brother, lessons long since learned in separation. He noticed how, even though the troopers were still a long way off, she'd conceded to what they wanted without blinking, the moment they threatened her brother.

He noticed how when she defied them, she'd moved towards him; when she obeyed them, she backed off.

It hit him.

Palpatine was trying to separate them again.

This hadn't been a part of his master plan, and now he wanted to send the rebellious toys back to the toy box, silence this problem, _separate the Skywalkers, _and—

And Anakin _would not let him_.

He unleashed a roar unlike any he'd produced in that arena and ran forward, reaching for his children—

But he'd left it too late.

The troopers stormed in, separating them. They grabbed at Anakin with their armoured hands; he lit himself aflame but they still kept grasping, so he kept howling, that flame burning hotter and hotter—

A whimper.

He threw his head to the side. There was a gun at Luke's head.

For a moment he couldn't breathe. He'd imagined how his son had died a thousand times in his nightmares, guns held up to his skull by soldiers who'd loved him, young and desperate and _terrified_. For a moment, he couldn't separate his nightmares' memory and what his eyes told him was true.

His gaze flicked to Leia. Her arms had been wrestled behind her back, and the charred armour of the troopers holding her suggested she'd fought just as viciously as Anakin had. She was statue-still.

_Palpatine only needs one._

Even if he stopped fighting, they might just shoot Luke as a threat, anyway. There was still Leia to threaten him with.

But Anakin wasn't about to take that chance.

He stopped fighting, and let them drag him away.

But his gaze followed the twins for as long as it could.

* * *

"You _bastard_. You lying piece of utter—"

"Now, now, Anakin," Palpatine had the gall to sound both angry and amused. Anakin wanted to rip his teeth out— "Is that any way to speak to the man who holds your children's lives in the palm of his hand?"

"It's the way to speak to a monster."

Palpatine hummed quietly. "Perhaps." He tapped a finger on the bars to the cell Anakin had been thrown back into—far less comfortable than the gladiator's quarters he'd become accustomed to. "But one might not find it the wisest path. After all, one hand gesture from me"—he waved his hand; Anakin despite himself, tensed—"and I can have one or both of them slaughtered in a heartbeat."

"I think you're too fond of orchestrating others' pain and torment to do that."

"You genuinely think I wouldn't?"

Anakin swallowed. "No," he admitted, "I think you would."

"So are you going to cooperate or not?"

Anakin glared. . . but capitulated. "I am."

"Good." He tossed something through the bars, then—Anakin squinted at it, then his insides went cold. "Put those on."

"I am not putting those on."

"I thought you wanted to see your children again?" Anakin glared, but Palpatine just smiled dangerously. "I am not going to have you transported through the palace when you can still catch fire like a dry branch in summer. If you put them on, I will allow you to see them again. If only so you realise how much they—_all of you_—are _mine_."

Anakin narrowed his eyes. "Right now?"

"Right now."

He picked up those pale magic-suppressant cuffs gingerly. Even touching them sent that unnatural shiver through him; he felt his inner fire recoil at the _cold_ it sensed.

Absently, one hand came up to touch the injury down the side of his face. He'd injured Luke, been cruel to both of them beyond all excuse. He needed to go, to talk to them; he needed to explain—

He just needed to see them again.

He missed them so much.

He had for the last seven years.

He took a deep breath, and pushed the cuffs onto his hands. They closed with a snap, but thankfully they didn't bind his hands together—they just cut him off from the only thing that had been a constant throughout his entire life.

He closed his eyes for a moment, taking a ragged breath, then opened them again. Palpatine was watching him with an undisguised glee.

"Lead the way," Anakin said coldly.

* * *

Anakin was bouncing on the balls of his feet from the moment the troopers escorted him out of the cell. Palpatine led the way, his cane slowly tapping out the slow crawl that he moved at, and Anakin wanted nothing more than to snap at him to move faster.

But he didn't. He didn't dare to.

Even when Palpatine insisted on leading him to the medical bay first, to get a scared-looking healing magician to look at the angry slash Luke had carved into his face. Even when the magician took _entirely too long to finish up—_

Then they were going. Back to the arena where Anakin's quarters had been—back to where the gladiators stayed.

His heart started hammering in his chest.

He'd never bothered to find out where the Astartes' sleeping quarters were, so he had no way of knowing if they'd been moved to more secure facilities after the fiasco in the arena or just been returned to their previous ones. Anakin had spent his night in the cell tossing and turning with worry about them.

How was Luke—had they treated his gunshot wound? What about Leia? Had she continued to obey, or resisted and been punished? Or—

He sucked in a breath.

"I trust," Palpatine said, gaze fixed ahead of him, "that I don't need to explain to you and your twins what the consequences will be if you do anything. . . _untoward_."

Anakin stayed silent.

"I only need you until the Empire Day celebrations," Palpatine warned. "After that, you may impress me enough to elevate your position—you might finally have the incentive to take your place as my right-hand, mightn't you? It'd make you and your children my heirs, after all. But after all this, if you incline yourself the _other way_. . ."

Anakin narrowed his eyes.

Palpatine resumed his walk and they continued in silence for only a handful more minutes. When they stopped again, it was in front of one of many concrete, single-floor cabins that littered the gladiators' area of the palace grounds; it was virtually identical to Anakin's old quarters.

His heart hammered harder in his chest.

At the wave of Palpatine's hand, one guard produced a key. Anakin found himself fidgeting as it was inserted into the lock.

"Aren't you going to knock?" he asked. Palpatine had always knocked when visiting him.

Palpatine ignored him.

"Remember what I said," he warned, then gave Anakin a surprisingly strong shove into the room and slammed the door behind him.

Anakin winced as his knees slammed into the floor, but he scrambled to his feet as quickly as possible, lest Palpatine—

"Father?"

The room wasn't dark, but it was bright outside. It took Anakin's eyes a moment to adjust.

It wasn't small, but it wasn't big—it was about the same size as the bedroom for the quarters Anakin had been assigned. Comfortable enough, if one was not a prisoner: a bunk bed sat in the corner, beige covers folded neatly and dispassionately; a half-open door leading to a bathroom identical to Anakin's; a worn rug patterned with faded amber embroidery of flames; and a worn brown sofa furnished with two cushions and two Skywalkers.

Luke got up the moment Anakin's gaze stilled and launched himself at hi,, his arms going round his waist before Anakin could so much as move. He heard his son hiss, then relax his arm grip a little as the contact aggravated his wounds—_wounds his father had helped give him_.

Had he been to a healer? If Palpatine had made _Anakin_ go but not Luke—

Anakin's gaze went over Luke's shoulder to where Leia sat on the sofa still, ramrod straight. She narrowed her eyes at him.

"Father?" she hazarded suspiciously. She watched him and her brother carefully—then her gaze moved to the door, when she'd no doubt heard Palpatine's voice moments ago.

Then it hit Anakin.

He staggered back from Luke, letting his son's hand hang in midair until it dropped as a fist. He switched his gaze between the two—Luke's unreserved, unabashed glee had shifted to something simultaneously more vulnerable and calculating.

Luke and Leia exchanged a look.

"I'm not a vision," Anakin said hurriedly. Gods, what had Palpatine _done_ to his children that they couldn't trust their own minds anymore, couldn't trust— "I'm _not_ a vision. I'm real, I'm your father, I'm here—"

"You've been here before," Leia said quietly.

Then Luke added, "And so has Mother," and Anakin's heart shattered.

Luke's face crumpled. He hugged himself, as if to stop himself from hugging his father again, vision or not.

Anakin's heart shattered further.

"I'm here for real now," he offered weakly, holding out a hand.

They kept watching him carefully.

Desperate, he tried, "Can Palpatine influence your memories?"

They exchanged a glance. "No," they said, reasonably comfortably.

"If he could," Luke added, "he would have erased all memory of you and Mother and each other and replaced it with nothing but loyalty to him years ago."

Anakin's heart was being pierced by an icicle, but he pushed on, "So can you remember me in that arena, summoning fire—" He cut himself off and glanced at Luke, at his limp and his scar and the pain folded in the tight corner of his lip.

"I'm sorry," he said suddenly. His throat was blocked. "I— hate me. Hate me all you want. I _hurt _you, I _deserve_ it.

"But I _am_ real." He held out a hand. "I'm real, and I _will_ get you out. You're not alone anymore."

Leia's jaw worked. She clearly _wanted_ to believe it, but she didn't yet dare.

"Just because we remember Vader, doesn't mean he was you."

"He was me. I _promise you_—"

"We don't have any proof of that—"

"Leia," Luke said. Actually hearing someone else say their real names sent a thrill through him.

She snapped, "_What_?"

"None of the visions told us to hate them before."

"None of the visions ever had reason to," she riposted, but Anakin could tell she was wavering.

Luke stepped forward again. He took Anakin's hand and laced his fingers through his, not breaking eye contact for the duration of the moment. Something about the gaze—a certain vacancy—reminded Anakin that his children _had_ managed to pick up some of Padmé's family gifts, after all.

"He's afraid," Luke murmured. "And confused, and guilty, and desperate. But mostly afraid."

Anakin flexed his fingers to better hold his son's hand. "Palpatine told me you couldn't read anyone's thoughts except each other's."

"We can't." Leia pushed herself off the sofa to approach them cautiously. "This is just Luke's overactive sense of empathy acting up."

"I don't think visions can be afraid," Luke insisted.

Leia's eyes were dark, her expression unreadable. "Where were you?"

"I've been organising the Rebels for the last seven years. I'm so sorry, I didn't know you were alive. But the _moment_ we leave, there'll be safe houses to hide you, you can—"

"No," Luke interrupted, picking up on his sister's meaning. "Where were you when Mama died?"

Anakin drew in a breath. "I— I didn't know the attack was going to happen," he said lamely. "You know that—I'd never have left if I'd known—"

"_No_." Leia waved one hand irritably. Apparently she wasn't used to interacting with people who couldn't at least partially read her intent—or weren't used to the vague, implicating way that coups were organised and alliances made in the arena. "_Where were you_? Where were you going? Why did you go? What did you tell us at breakfast that morning?"

Oh. _Oh._

"I'd gone to the Great Library," he said, smiling. "I went looking for books about fire magic you could continue your studies with."

The twins exchanged a look.

". . .that's right," Leia admitted. Luke smiled. "It's him."

"So we can drag him into the coup?" Luke asked eagerly. One of the many jarring things about that sentence was that it reminded Anakin—not for the first time that conversation—that they were only nineteen.

Leia's mouth twisted into a grin, and she hugged him.

It knocked all the air out of him. He'd never been happier.

"Yeah," Leia said, grabbing his hand and dragging him over to the sofa. "We can."

* * *

The twins talked and talked well into the night; Anakin was almost loathe to talk himself. He just wanted to sit there and listen to them tease each other for eternity.

If he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine it was seven years earlier, sitting on the sofa in their manor, sensing the crackle of the fireplace as the children chattered. They'd been so _animated_ at twelve years old; Luke would swing his arms a little too wildly and nearly hit an antique vase, Leia would freeze, Anakin and Padmé would exchange a look more amused than exasperated—

But now, at nineteen, they were drawn in and reserved. The fierce emotions Anakin _knew_ they felt were tempered to indifference on their faces, the only form of control they had in a world where their every thought was open for pillaging.

It broke his heart to see it—so much so that he almost failed to be frightened, unnerved, awed by the ambition and the _simplicity _of the plan they related, tight hand gestures betraying their passion.

"It'll be on Empire Day, obviously," Luke said, "during the Empire Day celebrations. Are you in?"

He swallowed.

But there was never any possible reply for him other than the one he gave them.

* * *

Palpatine came for him too few hours later, a single raised eyebrow at Anakin and the twins slumped half-asleep against him conveying all the threat he needed.

Despite it, Anakin glanced down at them first. Leia was on his right, her head nestled in the crook of his elbow; Luke was on his left, sandy hair spilling over his shoulder.

Anakin was quietly astonished they were comfortable enough to sleep in his presence at all.

But they weren't comfortable enough to sleep _deeply_. Anakin made to gently disengage himself from the tangle—seven years without practice or not, he still remembered how to deal with these situations—and they eyes snapped open immediately.

Leia's gaze narrowed up at him for a moment, then she recognised him, and her frown shifted from threat to confusion. "Father. . .?"

"Time's up, children," Palpatine cooed. Anakin did not miss the way the twins tensed at the sound of his voice, breathing quickening. "You'll get to see Vader in the arena later today—"

Luke's hand clenched around Anakin's arm.

"—but for now he has to leave."

Leia's mouth constricted into a sneer, then she glanced at Luke, Anakin. . . and stepped away.

"Yes, master," she said dully.

Luke's grip on Anakin slackened and he retreated as well.

It was Anakin who glanced from side to side. "Wait—"

"_Now_, Vader."

Anakin gritted his teeth, but went. He twisted around to mouth _I love you_ at the twins moments before the door slammed shut.

* * *

Anakin had been shocked by the daring of the twins' plan when he first heard it.

Now, standing in the training room and watching everyone mill around him, he was struck by it anew.

There were _so many people_.

He moved his gaze across the room. The twins smiled at him when they caught his eye, then bent their heads together again and continued whatever discussion they'd been having.

Anakin was itching to wander over and join in, but he could feel the troopers' gazes on his back. Remembering Palpatine's words, he stayed away.

But even so, _someone_ approached him, and it wasn't Luke or Leia.

He glanced up in surprise when a shadow fell across him—_multiple _shadows, in fact. Looking up was an interesting experience: he saw his own mask reflected back at him in both her goggles and the silver carapaces of the spherical machines that hovered above her head.

"Voidgazer," he said warily.

"Vader," she returned. She studied him for a moment, lips pursed in silence.

He twitched awkwardly.

He twitched again in shock when the voice echoed through his mind. _Aiolin told me she's decided to trust you. She did not share why._

Anakin blinked, cringing slightly at the feel of someone else's voice in his mind. He'd thought there _weren't_ any skilled mind-readers among the gladiators— Cylo had said—

Cylo had said Voidgazer couldn't manipulate sentient thought. Only machines.

So either Cylo had lied to him, or—

_I trust,_ Voidgazer continued before the shock could show on his face, _that you'll be _subtle_ about the secrets we keeps from the good doctor and our Imperial overlord?_

Anakin didn't react, but Voidgazer scoffed—the only action she'd ostensibly made in the last few minutes—and made to walk away.

To all appearances, she'd just walked up to him to stare him down and found him lacking.

Bu her voice echoed in his mind even as she retreated.

_This coup has been in planning for an age. What we allowed you to overhear was only a fraction of the unity and power the twins achieved._

_If you sell us out, I will shatter your mind like an eggshell. . . _after_ the twins torch your body until you scream in agony._

She didn't come near Anakin for the rest of the morning. He fought her in the arena that afternoon.

She lost.

* * *

Empire Day came soon enough.

Even without knowing the twins' plan, Anakin would have known something important would happen that day because the trooper who came to escort him to the arena didn't give him his first bruise of the day for once.

Their grip on his upper arm was loose, but still unnecessary; he hadn't tried to do a runner in weeks.

Anakin scrutinised them. Perhaps they were new?

If they were aware of his gaze, they didn't show it: they kept their grip firm, gaze straight ahead, the speed they were marching a little too fast for him to comfortably keep up with.

It wasn't until they stopped, however, that he began to have his suspicions.

He'd been the most effective Rebel leader the country had. He'd memorised the blueprints of Palpatine's palace; he'd _certainly_ memorised the blind spots in the surveillance system.

When they stopped in one—a section of the path _just_ obscured by a tall, flowering hedge—he raised an eyebrow. This was. . . suspicious.

The trooper let go of his arm, and he twisted around to stare, eyes narrowed. Now that he thought about it, something about the figure was familiar. . . the gait they walked with, the mannerisms. . .

Then they tugged off their helmet and his eyes blew wide.

"_Ahsoka_."

"Hey, Skyguy." She grinned at him. "I'm here to get you out. We thought—" She faltered, then continued. "We didn't come sooner 'cause we thought Old Wrinkles had just decided to execute you quietly for some reason. But a few spies saw your fight a few days ago, saw you take off your mask, and we're here now."

She tucked the helmet under her arm and tossed her white hair back before reaching for his arm again. "Now, c'mon, we gotta get out of here while all the security's focused on the arena—"

"I'm not leaving."

Her hand froze before it could touch him. "What?"

He winced as he felt the wind pick up—she'd _always_ been more expressive with her powers than most—but continued doggedly, "I'm not leaving. I have to stay."

"_Why?_"

So many reasons, all equally important—no, that was a lie. Only one mattered to him.

To most of his Rebel friends, though, the other would be preferable.

"Some of the gladiators—_most _of the gladiators—are in a coup to kill Palpatine. It should be happening sometime before noon, and then—"

"The _gladiators_?" Ahsoka scoffed, tense. She kept glancing around; maybe she thought someone would could looking for them any moment. "The engineered ones he had made just to entertain him? You read those reports, same as I did—they're all slavishly loyal."

"No," he said tightly, "they're not."

"What the _hell_ gave you that impression? The way Voidgazer unleashed her demon-machines on you? The way Karbin tried to ram spears down your throat? The way one Astarte cooked you like roast poultry and the other tore your face half-open—"

"_Don't_," he said through gritted teeth, "you _dare_."

She paused, frowning.

"I deserved what the twins did. I deserved it _all_. I hurt them in those fights and outside them, so badly—"

"And why," Ahsoka asked, perplexed but gentle, "do you care?"

Anakin stared at some nebulous spot over Ahsoka's shoulder.

"Did _you_ see what happened that day I took my helmet off?"

Her brows furrowed. "No, I wasn't there, and the agent just said there followed a pandemonium she didn't understand."

"Because after I took my mask off," Anakin said, "so did the Astartes, and—"

He cut off, choking. Luke's sooty, bloody face flashed to mind, a mush of pink, red and black, Leia's snarl of _rage_—

"And?"

"It's Luke and Leia."

Silence.

"They're Luke and Leia," he said again, sobbing a little. "They always have been. Astarte, Vader—they're all stage names." He took in a ragged breath. "They're my children."

Then, quieter, "They're alive."

Ahsoka was quiet for a moment before she said, "Then you have to stay." At his shock, she elaborated. "See them through it all."

He almost cried from gratitude.

Of course Ahsoka would say that. She was _Ahsoka_. Rebel second-in-command or not, she loved the twins like she was their aunt.

"So what plan have the trouble twins come up with, then?" she asked immediately. Anakin had to smile. "If I'm not extracting you, I still have several agents standing by and a great many explosives. How can I help?"

Anakin thought of the plan murmured to him by starlight. He thought of how much time they'd already spent behind the bush—how suspicious it would look.

"Just bring down any and all stairways to the Emperor's box once we're inside," he said succinctly, gently tugging her helmet from her hands and placing it back over her head. "Barricade the doors—no one gets in or out, under any circumstances. If you see people rioting, that's a good thing."

"It always is," she quipped with a grin, just before her face vanished behind the helmet. She took his arm back in her hand and kicked his calf lightly.

"Now move, scum," she joked. "Stop wasting my time."

Anakin continued onwards and, for once, he was glad of the Vader mask.

It hid the hopeful, anticipatory smile starting to bloom on his face.

* * *

Ahsoka vanished after she dropped him off and saluted, so Anakin went to peek out at just how many people had come to watch Palpatine's promised spectacle.

He wanted to faint when he saw the sheer number, but he just pursed his lips grimly.

This would be a spectacle indeed.

This would be the greatest damn _spectacle_ in history and be long remembered as the _end_ of this _tyranny_—

"Vader," Cylo snapped. "Get into the line."

Anakin made a face, but got into line.

He knew what would happen next. The doors would open, every gladiator in the arena—and there were _a lot_ of them—would file out to bow before Palpatine as one. . . then Ezra and the other magicians would be released, and then the bloodbath would begin.

Theoretically.

If the twins had anything to do with it, Anakin knew, there would never be any bloodbath. The fighting wouldn't last that long.

The only bloodbath would be among the soldiers standing by, and any overzealous spectators who got in the way—

He squeezed his eyes shut, and silently prayed that Ahsoka would manage to keep Palpatine where he was. If not, the collateral damage would be. . .

He glanced at his twins, who had identical expression on their faces of something that could have been anticipation _or_ concern.

. . .catastrophic.

Anakin squared his shoulders as the klaxon sounded, and then they were marching out.

He imagined how they must look, among the sand and stone. Bright, sunlight glinting off the masks Palpatine so _obsessively_ made they wear, had hidden Luke and Leia in plain sight with? Intimidating, in the armour and weapons and tight, glaring expressions that some of them sported?

Terrifying? A symbol of Palpatine's strength, that he could command so many fearsome warriors for something as shallow as _entertainment_?

He hoped it was the latter. If only to watch that conception crash and _burn_ in the chaos they were about to unleash.

That damn announcer's voice crackled over the speakers. It made the hair on the back of Anakin's neck stand on end.

_"And now enter the gladiators!"_

He gritted his teeth.

_"There's Vader, our current reigning champion, who hasn't lost a match since he arrived here! Voidgazer, injured from a match with him but still likely to show these traitorous magicians what's what! The Astartes! Morit's new scar and injuries have been healed up pretty well, but I bet he still wants revenge! And Aiolin—"_

Anakin stopped listening. He could feel the crowd watching him excitedly—no, not _him_. They were watching _Vader_, striding around in his signature black armour and cape. How many of them knew that it was one of their despised insurgents they cheered on so ardently?

They came to a halt a little way in front of Palpatine's box. It was lower than usual, just as the twins had said it would be, and the scaffolding that would enable the victors of this massacre to climb up and receive their prize directly from His Wonderful Highness was in place. Behind his mask, Anakin ran an eye up the wooden stairs and platform he'd have to get up. It looked doable. . .

Palpatine waved his hand and they all bowed smoothly. Anakin's eyes stayed on Palpatine and his throne for as long as possible before they flicked towards the ground, then back up again as soon as possible.

The klaxon sounded again.

They turned in synchrony to face in one line, shoulder to shoulder, back across the expanse of sand they'd just traversed, and the door they'd just exited.

That door swung open again, and the captured magicians filed out.

Ezra was first, head held high and leading the charge. He'd been furnished with some sort of shield and helmet—all of them had, actually. Probably to make it seem like a fair fight.

It wasn't. Even from here, Anakin could see some of them were trembling with fatigue, several limping.

_"These traitors," _the announcer declared, _"have caused widespread disruption and even death with their pitiful insurgency. And now, on this glorious day of our Empire, some of our greatest citizens will give them what is their due. Your Highness?"_

Anakin turned his head round to look up at Palpatine. He was staring straight at him as he raised his hand and said, "Begin."

The klaxon sounded one last time.

The gladiators roared, and charged.

* * *

They did not, however, charge at the magicians.

Nor did the magicians charge at them.

The troopers guarding the perimeter fell like branches in a high wind to all sorts of power: fire, water, metal, earth, air, sand. In a heartbeat the arena descended into the sort of organised chaos a whirlpool or series of rapids embodied, with violent currents in some places, but with one ultimate destination: to kill the Imperial soldiers and_ get out_.

Gladiators fought back to back with the captured magicians; the ones not in on the plot, not savvy enough to pick the right side or too loyal for their own good were struck down. The only thing the gladiators' enhancements were used for was to protect those without them.

Anakin might have smiled, if he was looking. His children had done it.

But he wasn't looking.

Palpatine's horrified, _outraged_ face was the sole target of his attention; he took the wooden steps three at a time, Luke and Leia having to race to keep up with him. There were others following as well, he could tell. The cacophony of boots on wood was thunder; their reckoning was the lightning.

They were halfway up the step when Palpatine rose. He had one look of slightly panicked disdain for them before he made to flee into the antechamber.

Anakin snarled his disgust and pushed himself further—_Ahsoka you'd better come through for us—_

He hit the marble floor of the Emperor's box running, his boots clanging loudly. Palpatine was at the door now, his precious red guards at his front and back, shooting at them; the heavy door was closing—

He punched his fist forward.

Fire cannon-balled ahead of him. It roasted the guards where they stood and blew the doors back open for half a second, only slightly scorched—

But that precious half-second was all he needed.

He needed to find Palpatine. He needed to kill him. He needed to _end this—_

He was through the door and into the antechamber in a heartbeat. Palpatine was at the other end, snapping at guards who heaved at the other door but couldn't open it—

Ahsoka had done her job.

The door slammed and locked behind him; he didn't know who had made it in, and he didn't care. The frustrated cries of the people who hadn't were inconsequential to him.

Anakin didn't slow. He didn't even take the set of carpeted stairs in the middle of the room and just _leapt_, landing solidly at their bottom. He stalked forward—

Palpatine turned round to meet his gaze with those sulphurous eyes and said, _"STOP."_

Anakin stopped.

There were gasps behind him—of pain and surprise. Why would they be surprised? It was really only natural that he stopped, possibly the most natural thing in the world—

Palpatine laughed.

He said, "Take off your helmet."

"No, _no_, Father, _don't_—"

The tearful pleas—_Father?_ a part of him wondered—were drowned out by the perfectly reasonable request. Take off his helmet. Why on earth wouldn't he? He was hot in here, fairly stuffy, and his breathing rasped so horridly—

The helmet clattered to the floor.

_"Let him go you bastard—"_

"Now, Vader," Palpatine approached, black robes swirling around him like the eddies of fate; his red guards twitched but didn't follow. "You are Vader, are you not?"

He found himself nodding. It was true, wasn't it? This man was so kind, so honest, he certainly wouldn't lie to him—

_"Your name is Anakin!"_

The voice was very far away.

"I've been having a bit of trouble with insurgents lately," Palpatine continued smoothly, and Vader was enthralled by the cadences of his voice. "There's two right here, actually; would you mind helping an old man out and dealing with them for me?"

"Of course, master." The title fell unthinkingly from his lips; if there was a sob behind him, he cared nothing for it. The only thing that mattered to him was the slow, proud smile spreading across his master's face.

Vader reached for his inner fire; Palpatine tutted. "Not like that." He reached inside his robe and brought out a small ceremonial dagger, fire opals set in the hilt. "Do you remember this, Vader?"

He held it out.

Vader took it. It was too small for his hand, but it _was_ familiar.

A flash of memory: a pale hand grasping the hilt, laughter pealing, the blade getting tucked away into the bodice of a white dress—

"Indeed," Palpatine praised, "it was a wedding gift to your late and lamented wife, from your late and lamented mother. A welcome into your fiery bloodline." He sighed. "I keep it to remind me of one of my fondest memories. And I think it's only fitting that you dispatch of these insurgents with it now, don't you?

"After all," he added. "Dearest Padmé was trying to kill them herself when she met her untimely fate."

_That_ sealed it. A seven-year-old rage built in Vader. He was ready to do _anything_ his master said—

"Turn around."

He turned, and looked them in the eyes.

Two of them, as hauntingly familiar as that dagger had originally been. The blond boy's front was choked in blood, a red guard's knife at his throat providing all the explanation as to _why_. He was breathing shallowly, desperately. A part of Vader that felt inexplicably _cold_ took immense pleasure in his pain.

The other, the girl, seemed calmer only because she was frozen still. Tears tracked down her face.

"Father," the boy said, voice hoarse. More blood spilled with the motion.

Vader stilled. _Father. . .?_

"Don't listen to them," his master commanded, and really, why _would_ he listen to such lowly insurgents, they had nothing at all worth saying—

"_Father,_" the boy said again, and the girl said it with him, their voices reverberating with a chorus- or choir-like power—

He glanced down at the dagger in his hand. Anakin had insisted Padmé have it in her bedside draw at all times, he remembered, and he'd not been able to find it in the wreckage of the house. Why had Padmé used _this_ knife to try to kill the insurgents?

Because. . .

Because. . .

Because she'd been trying to _protect_ them, protect against someone else, someone who'd had the power to almost turn her hand on_ them_ instead, but she'd fought back, she'd fought against—

—_his master—_

—was infinitely wise and gracious and benevolent and _always right always right_, and really, why did he bother thinking on his own at all he should just listen to his master listen to his master listen to his master if he told him to kill these insurgents kill his children he should listen to his master—

"Go on, Vader. Just step up and insert the blade into their hearts, one at a time. It won't be too messy. You'd be doing us all a favour. . ."

Vader stepped forward, tightening his grip on the dagger.

The boy was crying now as well, his terror stark on his face. His desperate gaze flicked to his twin; she met it and sobbed.

Anakin stopped. Those frigid fingers constricted around his mind.

He didn't want to go any closer—

—_that was a lie, he did, he wanted to hug them and hold them and whisper that it was going to be alright_—

—and he'd much rather kill his enemy from a distance. Less up close and personal.

Vader asked, "Can I throw the knife, master?"

"_Yes_," Palpatine snapped, a terrifying glee in his face and in his voice— "_just kill them_."

Vader drew his arm back to throw.

Luke and Leia closed their eyes, faces turned away—towards each other—

—and Anakin pivoted on his left foot and snapped his wrist down.

The dagger glinted as it flew.

Palpatine's yellow eyes blew wide, blazing—

Blazing, like the fire Anakin engulfed the blade in.

That deadly-sharp red hot metal shard slid into Palpatine's heart like a key coming home to the lock. Palpatine had no armour to take the brunt of the impact. Not like he'd had.

"I'm a person," he said quietly, "and my name is Anakin."

He lifted his fist. The remaining four guards in the room—including the ones _holding his children at knife point_—screamed at the fires that lit inside him. But he had no mercy to spare. Not today.

Luke and Leia sagged to the ground.

Anakin stepped forward, opened his mouth to say something—

And the heavy stone door came crashing down.

Ezra stood there, fists raised, cracks in the floor at his feet.

Power to shake the earth indeed.

"Finally got the door down," he said breathlessly, gaze going to Luke and Leia first, though it _did_ pause briefly on Anakin's face in surprise. "Is everything alright here?"

Leia was the one who dragged herself to her feet first, though she was still trembling from terror.

"Yeah," she said. She glanced at Anakin, then fixated on Luke. "It's fine. It's over. He—"

Her hand came up to her mouth. She didn't finish her sentence.

"Palpatine's dead," Anakin said for her.

He was loosely aware of Ezra smiling, shouting the news to the people behind him, the roar cresting the arena like a breaking wave, but he didn't care.

His gaze went to Luke and Leia, both barely holding themselves together, stumbling towards each other for support despite their mutual exhaustion.

Anakin wasn't having it.

They didn't have to be constantly strong for each other anymore.

So he took the remaining steps forward to catch them both in his arms, and held them.

They didn't stop shaking for a long time after that.

It was a little while later, after they'd all stopped shaking, that Anakin finally emerged from the throne room into the chaos of the arena. The day had been decidedly won: the gladiators and magicians combined had overtaken the troopers standing by, and almost all the spectators had fled.

In fact, what Anakin walked out into after the darkness of the antechamber was a demonstration of _peace_, cooperation.

It was still chaotic, certainly, but in the sense that there were _so many people_ milling about, that it was hard to keep track of which gladiators were befriending which magicians, which magicians were leaning on or speaking animatedly to which gladiators. And among them all, in the greyish-khaki uniform Anakin was so intimately familiar with, wandered his Rebels.

He spotted Ahsoka quickly—her white hair was pretty distinctive—and made his way over.

"_Five others agents standing by?_" he asked her humorously. She spun round to grin at him.

"I may have called in a few more," she admitted. "I wasn't about to risk failing that oh-so-important task you saddled me with, was I?"

She paused, then chastised, "You could've just told me the whole plan, you know. It was a snap decision that we sent some fighters out to help in the carnage, and to help now. We could've helped more."

"I wanted to preserve the element of surprise," he drawled.

She rolled her eyes. "Of course you did." She glanced around. "Where are the trouble twins? I saw them disappear into Palpatine's box with you."

"They're still in the antechamber you blocked off so effectively. They didn't want to come out just yet, but I figured I should come and see how things are faring out here."

She gestured around. "Pretty well, as you can see. The news of Palpatine's death spread like wildfire—a lot of people gave up fighting when they heard it. Hell, a lot of people gave up fighting in what I guess was pretty much the moment he died. I think there might have been some sort of mind control going on in those cases."

She frowned. "But there are apparently still pockets of resistance throughout the city and the palace. People who either don't care or don't believe he's dead. You'll need to make an official speech soon_ the new order_ and all. See if you can find some of heads of the other houses and drag them up with you."

There was a pause, then she added, "Oh, and we should probably produce Palpatine's body to dispel any rumours that he's still alive."

Anakin nodded constantly throughout her speech. "Seems like you've got everything under control."

"Uh huh." She still looked troubled.

"Contact Bail and Mon, see if they can get here anytime soon. We need a united front of house leaders."

"Uh huh."

"I'll leave it to them to write the script—they're better at talking than I am."

"Yup." She grinned a little, then, though she still looked preoccupied. "Dodging out of work, Anakin Skywalker?"

"I just killed the Emperor," he informed her. He flinched unwittingly at the sudden memory—of that _feeling_ in his mind, the overwhelming urge to be obedient, to serve, of how easy it had been to pick up a knife and turn it on the people he loved most in the world. . .

_That_ had been what Padmé had died resisting. _That_ had been what Palpatine had subjected his wife to.

"I'd like a little bit of rest right now," he finished, with less bravado than he'd have liked.

Ahsoka's eyes softened. "Understandable." She glanced up at the Emperor's box, then finally dared to ask what was on her mind.

". . .why didn't the twins want to come down here?"

Anakin swallowed. "I don't think they feel comfortable doing so."

"Would they feel comfortable talking to me?"

He smiled. "I think they'd love to."

* * *

They made their way up quickly enough, just after Ahsoka waylaid the next highest ranking person in the Rebellion and told her to keep her updated on the situation.

Luke and Leia were exactly where Anakin had left them, sitting on the steps in the antechamber, arms around each other. They looked asleep, but Anakin could tell they weren't: they were far too still for that.

They tensed when they heard the footsteps, whirled round, only to sag with relief when they recognised them. Luke's scar stretched and twisted oddly when he widened his eyes; Anakin felt a now-familiar pang of guilt.

He wondered if Luke felt the same about the scar on _his_ face, and instantly loathed the thought.

But then the twins' eyes had gone to Ahsoka and stayed there.

"Ahsoka?" someone said. It might have been either of them. It might have been _both_ of them.

"Hey, troubles," she said warmly, and crouched down next to them. With the angle the light reflected off her eyes at, Anakin thought he saw a glimmer of tears as she wrapped her arms around their shoulders. "I hear you've been on an adventure."

It was the wrong thing to say. Pain flitted across their faces for a moment, then those impassive expressions that looked more like masks than emotions chased it away.

If Ahsoka noticed, she just squeezed them tighter. "You gonna come out and meet everyone?"

They shook their heads.

Ahsoka coaxed gently, like they were all of nine years old again, "Why not?"

Luke flinched, but Leia just rose to the bait like a tiny dragon.

"Because," she snapped. "They hate us."

"_Hate_ you?" Ahsoka sounded as taken aback as Anakin was. "Why—"

"We're _engineered_." She spat the word. "You know what people say about us—we're machines, we're there to fight for entertainment rather than act like human beings. We're _unnatural_." She twisted around to glare at Ahsoka, then over her shoulder at Anakin. "You said it yourselves."

"No, we didn't—"

"You did." Luke sounded so, so tired. "Cylo told us, after that duel where we found out the truth. The day you got your armour, all you could talk about was how _unnatural_ we were, that we weren't human anymore." He glanced at Ahsoka, and mumbled, "And you've probably thought it. You hate us."

Anakin swallowed. "Luke. . ."

Ahsoka defended. "I _never_ thought it—"

"I can sense your disgust," he said quietly, "every time someone mentions the gladiators."

Anakin swallowed again. "Your overactive sense of empathy is acting up again?" he asked softly.

Luke nodded.

He said, a little louder, "Then sense this."

He walked down the steps one by one, each footstep tinny. He waited until he was on the step below them to kneel down, eye to eye with them, and say, "I love you."

The tears that had been threatening now spilled over Luke's cheeks, and Leia wasn't far off.

"I love you," he repeated. "It was the happiest day of my life when your mother told me she was pregnant, and it was the saddest day of my life when I thought I'd lost you. I love you. I always will. I will _never_ hate you.

"I hate _Cylo_. I hate Palpatine. I hate that they invaded you and changed you when you didn't want it, when they was _nothing to change_. Did it hurt, when he ran the experiments?"

Leia dipped her head. "Yes," she said hoarsely.

"I thought we would die of it," Luke added.

Anger flared in Anakin, fierce and protective and _luminous_. He didn't bother to hide it. Let Luke sense _that_.

"I hate that," he said. "I hate him. I don't, by any stretch of the imagination, hate you. I never will."

He looked up at Ahsoka. "Tell me Cylo died an agonising death."

"He's still alive. He was captured in his. . . _workshop_," she snarled the world, just as protective as he was, "and will eventually stand trial for his crimes."

"See?" Anakin raised a hand to each child's cheek; they both closed their eyes. "Everything's fine now. You don't have to be afraid. I love you."

"And the rest of the world?" Leia asked. "What about _them_?"

"Leia," Ahsoka said, "you and Luke just killed the most hated tyrant in history."

Leia frowned.

"You united two groups of people who otherwise would have murdered each other, and built peace and cooperation instead of bloodshed."

The twins shared a glance.

Ahsoka finished, "And you saved the world. You _made a new world_." She smiled. "They love you. All you have to do is step out there, see all the friendships and alliances and families forming between every faction before your very eyes, to understand that."

There was a beeping sound. Ahsoka glanced down, then up again. "Bail and Mon need you down there for the speech, Skyguy. We need to take Old Wrinkles down there too, show him off a bit." She cast a disdainful look at Palpatine's body, slumped in the corner while they had their heart to heart.

Anakin nodded, and stood. "Let's go save the world, then." He held his hands out to the twins. "You coming?"

They exchanged a glance, as they always did.

Then they gave two tremulous smiles, and took his hands.

* * *

**Thanks for reading!**


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